


17 – Home alone

by Banashee



Series: Keep Going (KeGo) December 2019 [17]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Bad Days, Clint Barton Gets a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Dealing with depression sucks. Clint knows this. But some days are worse than others, especially when no one is around."(...)His phone keeps ringing, but he ignores it. It turns over to voice mail, and it's Barney again. He's slurring badly, and he sounds like he might be on the verge of tears, as he begs Clint to call, he's so sorry. When Barney starts retching, the call ends abruptly and Clint closes his eyes, sliding down on the wall and stays seated on the dusty, wooden floor.He wishes, his dog was here. But no one is around, so Clint manages to get up, go to the couch and curl up there, hugging a cushion close to his chest in an poor attempt to mimic company. He laughs out loud at that, but even to him it sounds sad and pathetic.(...)"
Series: Keep Going (KeGo) December 2019 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558123
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	17 – Home alone

**Author's Note:**

> OK so I know I've posted part 16 last night and it's like 6:30 in the morning on the 17th where I am now, but in all honesty, this story is one of my, if not THE favourite of all the stories I've written for KeGo. So I'm kinda excited for it to see the world because I'm kinda, super proud of it? I hope you like it, too.
> 
> This is part seventeen of this small writing challenge that @Banana_Ink and I cooked up.  
> Basically, we came up with 24 prompts, which means 24 stories for 24 days in december. A way to cope with NaNoWriMo trauma, but also something short, sweet and relaxed to keep up a writing habit without stressing too much.
> 
> Check out the prompts, and most of all @Banana_Ink as well! She will be writing for her BNHA AU.
> 
> https://banashee.tumblr.com/post/189288814786/keep-going-december-kego

**17 – Home alone**

Clint is pacing back and forth in his apartment. He knows his steps must make at least a bit of noise, but he can't hear it.

When he wakes up that morning (early, way too early) he does so with a start and a strangled yelp on his lips which he is unable to hear then, too. His heart is beating too fast, and he's shaking, sweating. Slowly, he reaches out for his hearing aids on the bedside table, fumbles them in and switches them on. They pick up the low noises from the street, cars driving by, howling sirens. It helps him a little to come back to reality, to even out his breathing.

But then, glass is breaking and a man starts yelling down on the street, causing Clint to flinch violently and rip out his hearing aids again.

A low noise must be escaping his lips, and he's glad that no one is around to hear.

He almost flinches again when something is touching him, but it's soft and heavy on his back, and then a long wet tongue is affectionately slobbering all over his ear, and he can smell the dog treat breath near his nose. It's Lucky, and he relaxes a bit, stroking one of the paws that made its way around for him to reach.

Clint concentrates on the weight and the heartbeat on top of him, trying to calm down his breathing. The dog nudges him a little, as if to say, “I'm here, I'll help.”

When Clint manages to breathe better, he gently pushes Lucky off of him, but he keeps stroking his soft golden fur in the process, lets him lick his face and then Clint heads into the kitchen to give the dog his breakfast and to make some coffee for himself.

He doesn't remember the last time he's eaten something. When was the last neighbor BBQ again? Friday night, right? So that was roughly two days ago. He's not hungry.

Clint drinks another cup of black coffee, staring ahead on the wall by the breakfast bar. Now that he thinks about it, his last shower must have been a while ago, too. Too much work, too little energy.

He sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair – it feels greasy. He drinks another coffee and Lucky presses his head against his leg.

It takes him a while to get up and force himself into the bathroom.

Clint avoids the look into a mirror at all costs and slowly undresses himself. When he turns on the shower, he waits for it to get warm. His energy has left him by the time it does. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub for half an eternity, then shakes his head to get up and under the spray of water.

( _Useless. Wasteful._ )

Only, it's turned ice cold again by now. Clint curses all the way through washing up, getting it done as quickly as he possibly can, and by the time he's out and dressed again, his energy runs lower than before.

He ends up falling asleep sitting on the tile floor, head propped up against the bathtub behind him.

When he wakes again, he startles from a nightmare and he can already feel a wicked crick in the neck. Clint curses and pulls himself up from the floor. It hurts more than it should, but he steps out of the room.

All he wants is to curl up on the couch with Lucky and hope it'll get better on its own. But the dog isn't there. Instead, there is a short note taped to his kitchen table.

_Hi Hawkeye,_

_Sorry I don't have more time, but you are in the shower right now, so. I'm out of town for a bit, Lucky is with me like we agreed. We'll be back soon, see ya!_

_Kate_

it says in her handwriting. Clint blinks at it, confused. He must have forgotten about that. What day was it again? He checks his calendar on the wall, and yes, it says it right there.

He feels incredibly stupid, but he already misses Lucky. His day so far has been utter crap (let's be real, so have the last few _months_ ) and this ridiculously wonderful mutt really, really helps. But now he's gone, too.

Clint sighs unhappily. His phone lights up next to the note, and it's a message from Barney. Chances are that his brother is drunk off his ass right now, so Clint opens it cautiously. The text is full of typos and it proclaims how sorry he is for everything, that he misses him and loves him.

It leaves Clint numb and unfeeling, but later that day he spends about an hour crying over a fucking commercial, who knows what even for, but there is a happy, smiling family with your stereotypical 2.5 children and a big, cheerful dog.

Depression is strange like that.

Clint passes out on the couch, and when he wakes up, he has no idea what day it is – it's dark out, but his phone tells him that it's still the same shitty day, later in the evening. He scrubs his face with one hand, looks around him. There is something out of place on his kitchen counter. Something new. A bright blue plastic container. He frowns, gets up and steps closer. A small note sticks to the lid, and he reads through it.

_Hi Clint,_

_This is leftover lasagna, enjoy. You were asleep when I came by, didn't want to wake you up._

_I hope you're okay._

_Simone_

Bless Simone and her good heart. He makes a mental note to thank her later, and maybe bring something nice for the kids, too – they always appreciate it, and they do way too much for him, anyway.

There is a lump in his throat, and a gaping hole in his growling stomach. He puts the food in his microwave and eats dutifully. It makes him sick later, but that's okay. It's not Simone's fault that everything tastes like ash to him right now. If she asks, he'll lie and say it was great.

When he's done heaving into the toilet, he feels hick neck prickling, and the tell-tale panic in his guts.

He bolts out of the bathroom, stumbling with shaking legs, tremors in his hands, rushing through the apartment, searching every corner.

No one is there. No threat. Nothing.

He puts his hearing aids back in while his brain still runs crazy.

 _'You keep passing out when you can't even hear shit. Anyone could walk in at any time and you won't know. You're lucky it was only Kate and Simone earlier. You'll be useless kicking anyone's ass when they sneak in and overpower you! Stupid, weak! Waste of space!'_ His mind is screaming at him.

And Clint paces again, keeps shaking his head, trying to calm down his breathing.

His phone keeps ringing, but he ignores it. It turns over to voice mail, and it's Barney again. He's slurring badly, and he sounds like he might be on the verge of tears, as he begs Clint to call, he's so sorry. When Barney starts retching, the call ends abruptly and Clint closes his eyes, sliding down on the wall and stays seated on the dusty, wooden floor.

He wishes, his dog was here. But no one is around, so Clint manages to get up, go to the couch and curl up there, hugging a cushion close to his chest in an poor attempt to mimic company. He laughs out loud at that, but even to him it sounds sad and pathetic.

When he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky, so some amount of time must have passed. Also, his ears feel gross since he fell asleep with his aids in, but there wasn't anyone in his apartment, as far as he can tell. Clint want's to look on his phone, but it's dead.

He stares at the landline on the wall.

_'Don't do it, it's not worth it!'_

He gets up and steps closer.

_'You're just lonely you idiot! Do. Not. Call. Your. Brother.'_

But he does.

Barney picks up after a few rings, barking “What the fuck do you want?!” into the phone.

Ah, so he's sober today. Great.

“You called me first. And texted.” Clint replies flatly and Barney scoffs, “Bullshit!” and then he hangs up again.

It's like a punch in the guts. Just more painful. Clint doesn't know what he expected but he feels (' _Stupid! Stupid! Useless!'_ ) and then he realizes that there are tears burning in his eyes.

Cursing, he hangs up violently enough for the phone to fall back down, but he doesn't care and just crawls back into bed.

He _really_ wishes Lucky was here with him.

He sleeps restlessly, and with more than one panic attack interrupting him.

The next two days are so bad, that he can't even get out of bed.

Clint is in a constant state of questioning why he's even alive, shaking and clawing on the sheets, drenching them in sweat, tears and snot. It's probably a good thing he's too tired to do anything, or else he would have found some some sort of tool to end it.

He doesn't.

On the third day, he manages a shower and a cup of coffee with some dry crackers because his stomach is revolting by now.

Water. Would be a good idea, probably. So he forces himself to drink a bottle, too.

Then his pager sounds. Avengers Assemble, and so he suits up, packs his bow and heads to the rooftop, just in time for Iron Man to pick him up – literally. He swoops by and Clint holds on, long used to this way of transportation.

“Hey Clint.”

“Hey man. What are we going to shoot at?”

“Doombots. Again.”

“Aw. At least they're satisfying to blow up.”

“Sure are, once we know the latest shit update Doom gave those little fuckers. You look awful by the way, are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” but it comes out pressed and flat. He can't see Tony's face behind the helmet, but he just knows he gives him a _look_.

But then they're busy fighting annoying killer robots, and it's the most alive Clint has felt in _weeks_.

When all is said, done and wrapped up, he's being dragged along along to the tower for one of their “Yai, we live another day”-parties. Clint plasters a smile on his face and it feels awfully fake. It probably looks just as bad.

But Clint tries to keep up chatting with his team mates, putting up a happy appearance which he hopes can fool people at least a little bit. It probably doesn't work, because they're starting to hover.

“You okay?” they ask, and he nods, smiling just a little bit brighter, joking and claiming he's just a bit tired.

Clint leaves rather quickly, sneaking out of the tower as soon as he's got a chance.

Back home, he drops his cheerful facade because keeping it up is exhausting. He skips the shower, even though he knows he's going to hate himself for it later. What else is new.

Clint burrows into the couch and wakes up to Natasha sitting on his coffee table, calmly cleaning her guns.

“Hey, Nat.” he rasps, and she looks up.

“Hi. Anything you wanna talk about?” she asks lightly, but it doesn't fool him. She's worried.

“No.” he replies hoarsely, and forces himself upright.

“Go shower. I'll have food here when you're done.” she instructs, and it's easier to just obey. Nat gently squeezes his arm when he walks past her.

Shower. Get dressed. Walk back out. Face potentially uncomfortable talk. Great. He's got this.

Natasha has moved to his couch in the meantime, and when he sits down next to her, his leg keeps bouncing up and down. Clint doesn't say anything, just stares right ahead into nothingness. His vision gets foggy again, and he faintly notices that Natasha puts the cup of soup she was offering him on the table and folds herself down on the floor in front of him, running a gentle hand through his hair until he slowly leans forward, into her touch until they sit in an embrace.

It would be so easy to give in and let go, but he holds himself back. The human contact feels good, tho. It's been too long.

Still, he pulls away when he realizes that he's going to have a complete breakdown if Nat hugs him for any longer now. Clint manages to pull himself together, holding onto threads at this point.

“Don't lie to me right now. How not okay are you, Clint?” Natasha asks quietly.

“I don't know.” he shakes his head slightly.

He _could_ tell her about days spent in bed, wanting to die but feeling too tired to actually get up and do something about it. Clint figures she knows or at least suspects that.

“Things are fuzzy right now. I'm... I don't know how to explain it. But I'll be fine, I'm always fine.”

He can only hope that this will be true – it's getting harder to actually be fine lately. Natasha looks at him with concern and something... soft in her eyes as she keeps her hands placed on his knees. She doesn't come closer since he's pulled away, but she refuses to leave him alone and he loves her for it.

“You don't have to be fine all the time. I'm here. You've got me, the team, Kate... We're all very much willing to help you, if you'll let us. But we don't know how.”

“Can you stay with me for a little bit?” he asks, too silently for his own hearing aids to pick up but Natasha nods.

“Of course.”

She sits back down next to him on the couch, handing him the now lukewarm cup of soup and a bottle of water. Then she turns on the TV, filling the room with something light and brainless. Natasha settles against him, letting him choose how much physical contact he wants. Clint puts an arm around her and rests his head on top of her bright red curls.

Some time later, the front door opens and a second later he's greeted by a lapful of dog, and Lucky excitedly slobbers all over him.

“Hey Pizza Dog.” he says softly, burying his hands in the soft, golden fur and he can't help the small smile.

Lucky looks up at him, tail wagging and his one eye fixed at his human with an open mouthed doggy smile on his big, fluffy face.

Kate follows, and flops down onto the couch on Clint's other side with a “Hey Hawkeye” and grins when she gets the same words back as a greeting.

Something eases in his chest, and Clint pulls her close, too.

“What's up with the sappiness?” she asks, half jokingly, taking in her friends appearance – pale, eye bags, too much stubble, lost weight.

“Deal with it, Katie.” he grumbles goodnaturedly and she huffs but squeezes him in a tight hug.

“Yeah, whatever. Missed you, too. Hi, Nat.”

Clint leans back. There is still the heavy darkness inside of his head, and he's not sure if or how or when he can get rid of that. Or at least get a better grip on it.

But right now, with two of his best friends by his side and with his beloved dog sprawled out on his lap, drooling all over his sleeve while he pushing hid head into his stomach in an attempt to get even closer, Clint thinks that this car crash life of his looks a lot more bearable again.


End file.
